


Christmas Collection 2k19

by Synchron



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Light Angst, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Marking, Riding, Sleepy Cuddles, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: A small little collection of works I wrote for some friends.
Relationships: Dante (Devil May Cry)/Original Female Character(s), Dante (Devil May Cry)/Reader, Dante (Devil May Cry)/You, Vergil (Devil May Cry)/Reader, Vergil (Devil May Cry)/You
Comments: 53
Kudos: 258





	1. Stay: Vergil x Reader (SFW)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote these for a small circle of people that I'm very grateful to have gotten to know over the last few months. I unfortunately am missing one, and only because I have legitimately run out of ideas, and that circle of people also grew in the time between me deciding to do this, and me posting these today, but I unfortunately couldn't make the time to show my appreciation. I'm so sorry. 😭😭 It isn't because I don't love you, I just couldn't afford to keep adding to my workload...!!

You're not normally one to overdo it when it comes to drinking. Truth be told, you're not one to do it at all, preferring to bring your own brand of fun to any parties you attend. But being at the Devil May Cry Christmas party was an exception to the rule - you implicitly, and explicitly trust everybody present in the office to take care of you should the worst happen. And despite the number of weapons hung up on the walls, the trophies of various demons displayed, there's no lingering, insidious sense of danger. Everybody is just… having a good time - drinking, laughing, seeing how many marshmallows Dante can stuff into his mouth at once… It isn't often that the whole crew gets to come together like this.   
  
You just wish they would have told you just how potent the drinks you were knocking back really were, because you now stand in your bathroom on what you think (hope?) is the next morning, staring blearily at your haggard expression in the mirror, trying to make ends of what your name is and what year it is. Your hair is unbrushed, your makeup is smeared (you're quite certain that if you went to check your pillow, you'd find the other half of it imprinted there), good  _ lord _ why is the sunlight so absurdly bright, and  _ why _ can you taste bile in your mouth--   
  
Oh no…   
  
A metallic, sour taste rushes up the back of your throat, and you only barely make it to your toilet before it comes up. You grip the rim with both hands and wretch into the bowl, and when you feel something gently pull your hair back from around your face, holding it above your head, you pass it off as a figment of your imagination. It's only when you fall backwards, your back hitting somebody's shins do you realise that it  _ wasn't _ a ghost who was sympathetic to your pathetic display.   
  
Apparently hungover you is fully prepared to accept the presence of a supernatural force in your house.   
  
Technically, there is one though. Craning your neck all the way back until your head collides with Vergil's knees, you squint up at him, genuinely unable to tell if the faint hum you can hear is the halogen light overhead, or if it's Vergil himself making that noise. His mouth is moving, but all you can hear is that high pitched, constant whine... at least until he nudges at your back with his foot, dispersing the obnoxious buzz that, apparently, was in your head all along. Slowly, but surely, the world comes back into focus, his voice, gentle and soothing, most of all.   
  
"Are you alright?"   
  
You can't say for sure that you even responded, but with a soft click of his tongue, you feel Vergil gently lift you up off the floor, guiding you back towards the sink. He says something about cleaning yourself up, and that he'll meet you outside, but when, again, you don't (or can't) respond, you hear him sigh. He grabs something from the countertop and forces your hand closed around something long and thin - your toothbrush.   
  
Oh.   
  
"YeahrightI'll. Brush." For some reason, the words feel heavy and foreign in your mouth, like a physical burden that you have to force out. But it's enough for Vergil to understand, and with a prompt nod, he turns and leaves.   
  
It isn't until the brush is in your mouth and you're scrubbing the sour taste of bile away that you realise something rather important. Something that was, until only a short moment ago, literally staring you in the face.   
  
Why is Vergil in your home?  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The sound of cupboards opening and closing, and tupperware being brought out onto the counter has you shuffling towards your kitchen. Your appearance is much more dignified now; your makeup has been wiped off, your mouth carries the refreshing taste of mint, and the natural light that pours in from your windows  _ doesn't _ make you want to fight the sun with your bare hands.   
  
Your hair is still very much a mess though, but nobody's perfect.   
  
Except for Vergil, you suppose. His back is turned to you at the moment, but that just gives you the perfect opportunity to study the way the muscles in his arms flex and ripple as he works. His discarded coat hangs over the counter, and you hook your fingers into it as you go past, dragging it with you. Wordlessly, you slide into a stool at the counter, bundling the coat up into a rough sphere and plonking your head onto it with all the grace of a thrown sack of potatoes. Your arms then curl around it, providing a secure, makeshift fortress to protect you from the too-bright outside world. There's no pain, no pounding migraine, but your head, and entire body for that matter, feels like it weighs a tonne.   
  
"What are you even doing here?" The words are mumbled directly into his coat, slurring together into one garbled sentence, yet Vergil doesn't seem to have any trouble understanding you.   
  
"Someone had to take you home." Which, yes, is completely fair. But...   
  
"So why are you still here?"   
  
"You needed to be looked after. You were a bumbling mess last night." Though his reasoning is vague, it's spoken just as frustratingly simply. But his tone is deceptive - what you miss, with your face pressed so far into his coat, is the way his head drops, expression softening, hinting at something he isn't saying. When he talks again though, there's no trace of it to be found anywhere. "I thought you weren't one for drinking."   
  
"That's what I thought too." You croak, voice hoarse and muffled. "I don't even remember drinking that much."   
  
"Because you didn't," Vergil explains, weighing out flour, "you have almost an abysmal a tolerance for alcohol as I do. Which, if my brother is to be believed, is a feat in itself." Out the corner of his eye, he watches you with a fleeting sympathy. He can't seem to decide whether he feels bad, or feels amusement. "How do you feel?"   
  
Whether you're too tired to form actual words, or that they're simply too bothersome in your current state, your reply comes in the form of incoherent gibberish. A sigh and a blubber and somehow a blown raspberry all in one. You think you can hear Vergil chuckle under his breath.   
  
The sound of something sliding over the counter top towards you makes you peek out from the sanctuary your arms and his coat have built around your head, eyeing the glass of some kind of liquid that Vergil has placed in front of you.   
  
"This should help." He simply states. The fact he isn't telling you what it is, is admittedly worrying.   
  
"Why is it purple?" You ask, eyes narrowing into a suspicious squint.   
  
"It will help." Vergil tries again.   
  
"It's  _ glowing _ ."   
  
Knowing that repeating himself a third time will yield no results, Vergil just purses his lips at you, nudging the glass forward again until it touches the bare skin of your arm in a silent, persistent request. It's pleasantly warm on your skin, the minimal contact alone somehow helping to clear the fog that's circulating your system, and while that's all well and good because you're not really keen on feeling miserable for the rest of your day, you're just not sure if that's a  _ good _ thing. Objectively, sure. But if just touching the damn thing is making you feel better, it makes you question the nature of what's in that glass, and whether it has any ah… earthly qualities. The look on your face must be  _ quite _ something, a well-brewed concoction of distrust and disgust that's apparent in your eyes, because Vergil sighs.   
  
"Have I ever steered you wrong in the past?"   
  
You balk, lips twisting into a pout. Even though it's obscured by your arms, its existence on your face is given away by the scrunching of your nose. "I mean aside from the fact you let yourself into my home and stayed without my permission?" You mean that in jest, you really do. "Patty's birthday. You threw me to the wolves."   
  
_ The wolves _ being several of Patty's friends. Several of Patty's  _ male _ friends. All essentially children by comparison to you of course, but their energy was exhausting...   
  
Unfazed, Vergil continues to measure out ingredients, absently humouring you. "And then I gallantly came to your rescue."   
  
Despite yourself, you smile at the memory of that night, and that too, is reflected in your eyes. "Only after you found out they were seriously flirting with me."   
  
He hums. In agreement? In acknowledgement? You can't tell. "And thanks to me, they never will again." He peeks at you from out the corner of his eye. "For which you're welcome. Now drink up."   
  
"Ugh--" It's purely reflex, encouraged by the vague memory of somebody from last night saying exactly that to you, that you gag a little, but if Vergil insists so, and if it'll keep his smug little mouth closed, you'll do it. Your hands close around the glass, feeling its warmth seep into your palms and spread up your arms. Like the brief contact from earlier, it has a soothing effect on you, restoring some of your clarity, easing the fatigue, and lifting the weight that's settled over you. It has no smell when you lift the glass to give it a tentative sniff, blinking several times in confusion as your mind tries to process the lack of what it should  _ clearly _ be smelling. It's bright purple for goodness sake! It should smell like grape or something!   
  
With one last pleading look at Vergil, who responds with an expectant raising of his eyebrows, you huff indignantly and down the mystery liquid in one gulp. It's thick, almost like a syrup, but it has no taste which  _ also _ throws you for a loop. But even with a decided lack of anything foul, your expression contorts into one of mild disgust, eyes wrenched shut and brow creased. When the last of the purple liquid is gone, you slam the glass down back onto the counter and hiss, not at the (lack of) taste, but the texture of it. The viscosity.   
  
It actually reminds you a little bit of cu--   
  
"Well?"   
  
You open your mouth, about to dig into him about how  _ rude _ he's being for not waiting even a second before he expected a response from you, but the words die off in your throat, because... it doesn't feel dry? Your body feels lighter? The congestion that had you feeling so  _ clogged _ is gone too?   
  
You feel…  _ great _ .   
  
"Holy shit, what  _ was _ that?" Though the glass is mostly empty now, you pull it back towards you to peer into it at the remainder of the tonic it once held, still clinging to the sides. Not that that really tells you much about what it was, of course.   
  
"Half a devil star diluted with water." Vergil states nonchalantly, as if he  _ didn't _ just feed you something constructed primarily from demon bits.   
  
You blanch. Or try to, but you just feel too damn  _ good _ for that. Damn that accursed drink and its instantly revitalising ways, who said it could be this effective?! "You fed me demon pee!!"   
  
"Demon  _ spinal fluid _ ." Comes the light, but inevitable correction - Vergil always was, and always will be, a man of semantics. "Although it becomes unrecognisable as such in the process of synthesis. Regardless, you feel better, don't you?"   
  
Slowly lowering your head back onto your makeshift pillow, though this time in a gesture of your defeat rather than exhaustion, you pout again. Your lips sure are getting a thorough workout this morning, although perhaps not entirely in the way you'd like. "I guess…" Your mumble is lost to the soft velvet of his coat. "You  _ still _ haven't told me what you're even doing here."   
  
"Fulfilling a promise." Vergil deliberately leaves you no time to respond to that. "Now come and help me."   
  
You grunt into the material that surrounds your face, rubbing right into it to showcase your (half-hearted) defiance. But also to maybe rub his scent off on you too. "Fine." The stool screeches along your tiled floor when you stand up. "What are you even making anyway?"   
  
"Pancakes." Vergil eyes the array of ingredients he already has laid out on the counter. What on earth did he get the corn flour out for? "Or so I would hope."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Getting you home was the easy part. It was forcing you to drink a glass of water and tucking you into bed that was difficult. Even with his incredible strength, there is something miraculous in you that awakens only when you really,  _ really _ don't want to do something. And like water, you kept somehow slipping from his hold to slide into a mumbling heap on the floor. By the time Vergil  _ did _ manage to get you under the covers, he was actually a little out of breath. A feat that nobody but he need know.   
  
But after ensuring you were secure in your bed, tucked in, snug, and already snoozing, when he turned to leave, something kept him rooted into place. He looked back to find your fingers had closed around his wrist, impossibly tight, and clearly far beyond what he deemed to be your usual strength. His eyes darted back to your face, serene, if not a little flustered from the drinking, but  _ definitely _ still asleep. S-so then why were you--  _ How _ were you--   
  
Vergil made a mental note to never let you drink a single drop of alcohol again, the substance  _ clearly _ the cause of your sudden and strange new powers in stubbornness and refusal. The next few minutes were spent making various (and failed) attempts in prying your fingers off his wrist. He tried peeling them off one by one, but in some cruel joke, with every digit he managed to lift off of him, you closed one more in an endless cycle. He even tried simply pulling, yanking his hand back from your grasp, although all that ended up doing was dragging you halfway out of bed (and  _ boy _ did he have a hell of a time trying to tuck you back in with only one hand).    
  
Defeated, he'd slumped next your bed, where you still peacefully slept, somehow completely unaware as to the fact that you had just (very literally) single handedly bested a Son of Sparda. Secretly, Vergil found solace in that. And while he was busy accepting that this was to be his life from then on, the sound of your voice, laced in a sleepy haze had him lifting his head.   
  
"Stay."   
  
You were still asleep. He could tell by the soft, even sounds of your breathing, and the stillness of your features. But your words were cognizant, holding an awareness that felt so much like you when awake. Vergil slowly rose to his knees, suddenly understanding the meaning of your hand still clinging to his wrist. It wasn't a grasping reflex, driven by your intoxicated state.   
  
"Stay with me."   
  
Your voice was a startling contrast to the vice grip you had on him, soft and with a hint of vulnerability. Vergil lowered his head, pressing his forehead to yours. Such a minute form of contact is so soothing to him, calming and reassuring.   
  
"I will." At those two words alone, he finally felt your fingers loosen from around his wrist. "When you awaken, I promise I will be here."   
  
His eyes slid closed.   
  
"For as long as you wish, and for as long as you will have me."


	2. The Night is Young: Vergil x Reader (NSFW)

It was supposed to be a night spent in for  _ him _ , one with the sole purpose of making  _ him _ feel good. As it turns out, the sight of you perched on top of him, coy and a touch too smug, dragging the heat of your cunt along the underside of his cock riled Vergil up to the point of breathlessness. And not in the way you were hoping.   
  
Both of his hands are on your hips, fingers spread wide to give him a better grip on you as he lifts you off his hard cock only to force you back down onto it in distinct, almost jerky movements. It isn't slow and sensual like you were hoping the evening would turn out being, but having him pull you off his cock, leaving only the very head nestled inside your core before pulling you back down onto him in one swift and thorough motion nearly has you cross-eyed. What had begun as a night spent in worship of his body, with soft caresses and gentle kisses pressed into the softest parts of him (so certainly not his dick), eventually became the exact opposite. It's now feral, animalistic, a song and dance to express only the basest of human desire, and you, so willing and pliant and desperate, are his muse. You're only slightly disappointed by this turn of events, because as far as you're concerned, the night is still young.   
  
You've since lost the ability to keep yourself upright, and you now sit atop him, leaned so far over his own body that he has to tilt his head back in order to meet the skin of your throat with his teeth. Which he does. You can feel a sting of pain as he latches onto your pulse. He can feel its tempo, erratic and frantic, with his tongue as he sucks an uneven spot of bright red into your skin. It clashes with the calm glow of your fluster, serving as one of many reminders of what he's done to your body on this night alone.   
  
In a way, this proximity, the swelter of heated bodies, the melding of your respective sweat, is far more intimate than what you'd originally had planned. His chest heaves below you, hips bucking to meet with yours whenever he drags you back down and sheathes himself inside of you, stuffing you so full with everything that is him…   
  
Him, him,  _ him… _   
  
"Vergil--" You turn your head to press your forehead against his, eyes searching for his, even though they aren't really  _ seeing _ anything other than stars that explode in so many colours.   
  
"And here I thought you knew better than to play with fire." His words, and in a voice so low and husky, are whispered through a hungry, predatory smile. It's only because he's so close that you can hear him over the sound of your racing pulse and laboured breaths. His large hands wind further around you, cupping one ass cheek in each hand as his thrusts grow more feverish, ensuring that he rocks your hips against his pelvis whenever he meets you on each downward drag and grinding your swollen clit against the heat of his skin. It makes you shudder and whine on every stroke, and god if that isn't intoxicating in its own right, the rush of power at having so effectively turned the tables setting his blood ablaze. "Have you truly--" he takes a moment to huff out a groan, "--learned nothing in the time we've been together?"   
  
"I'm… not… hah…" Your voices gives out on you after those three measly syllables, and again, Vergil feels a thrill course through him that has his cock throbbing even as he fucks into your heat, as he drills into you your slick hole again and again and again. It's tireless and fervent and absolutely mind shattering. Such that even attempting to speak is folly.What even are words anymore? All you can think about is his cock, perfect and hard and thick and throbbing, scraping so delightfully against your most intimate place.   
  
"Are you so lost in your own pleasure that you can't form words anymore?" He finds it in him to chuckle even though his fingers are pressing painfully into your ass and all you can do between his frenzied thrusts is gasp for breath and moan his praises. If anything, it simply confirms his suspicions.   
  
"You're a selfish woman, aren't you?" Vergil is utterly enraptured by your rapid nod against him, grey eyes taking in every twitch of your brow, the sliver of your pink tongue he can see through your parted lips, your eyes shut so tightly in concentration. Or is it in reverence of his cock? It could very well be both. "You were supposed to be servicing me tonight, and yet here you are." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust upwards, pinning your hips to his with no mercy, no regard for how close you are to orgasm - he'll have you at that point sooner or later anyway. "Eagerly taking what you don't deserve."   
  
"You--" The brief reprieve gives you a chance to collect yourself, to gather your thoughts while you have the chance. "--you did this."   
  
"Me?" One of his hands skims up your back, his palm following the curve of your waist and tracing the line of your back with his fingers until he reaches the nape of your neck. Then he's pressing your face down, lips crashing and tongue immediately seeking yours. You will never get over the taste of him - spicy, fresh, somehow cool - there's always a nuance to his flavour that strikes you anew whenever you kiss him. But tonight, it's lost on you, and when he pulls away, leaving a thin string of saliva stretching between you until it finally snaps, you moan in lamentation of his tongue in your mouth.   
  
It only makes the colour of his eyes pop all the more.   
  
"If this is truly my fault," he begins, stray hand returning to its original position - cupping your ass, "then explain to me what this is…" On cue, he pulls you off his cock again, but slowly this time, torturously slow, letting the wet squelch of your cunt speak for him. It's impossibly loud, drowning out even your own hoarse gasps. "For what reason are you this wet?"   
  
Any scraps that remained of your dignity are thrown to the wind when, in a cruel twist of fate, Vergil feels another gush of your slick coat his cock, running down the length of him in thick rivulets to pool at the base. The sensation is not unwelcome. In fact, the smell of it is near overwhelming - a jolt to his senses that has his mouth watering, and his cock aching.   
  
"Was this your plan all along?" Vergil's teeth nip at your skin, leaving a trail of half-crescent marks all the way up to your ear where he whispers harshly. "Did you do all this with the intent that I would ravish you?"   
  
You can't bring yourself to deny it, not when he drives his cock back into you, sliding so smoothly all the way to the hilt. It makes you quiver, your hands scrabbling for any purchase on your lover that you can find, because if he keeps talking to you, if he keeps guiding your cunt over his shaft in all the ways he  _ knows _ that have you completely at his mercy, you're not going to  _ want _ to deny it. The only thing you can think of that you do want is release. Rapture. Euphoria. A rush of endorphins that reach even the tips of your toes and you cum.   
  
So you tell him yes. You whine it repeatedly into the warmth of his neck, muffling your pleasure with his skin as he fucks into your harder, and god you think you feel his chest rumble with a breathless chuckle at how helpless you are. You began the night worshipping his body, and in a rather roundabout, abstract way, you still are - just one particular part of it.   
  
He's grunting against you now, beginning to lose to the primal urges that slumber within him, thinking only of your velvet enveloping his length, and how it's beginning to contract around him. He can feel your hot breaths against his damp skin, cooling him only for a fraction of a second on each puff. If he really concentrates, he can make out the movement of your lips on his skin as you mouth his name, can match the rhythm of your breathing to the number of syllables in 'Vergil'. You're repeating it like a holy mantra, as if he is all that you need, all that you want. In this moment, it may as well be true.   
  
The bed creaks underneath the two of you, adding to the symphony of your collective pleasure. The steady beat increases, he continues to lift and drop you back onto his cock, presses himself deeper inside you, rutting and grinding. Your nails find his flesh, sinking into his taut arms and breaking his skin, but it just makes Vergil's heart race all the more, finding indescribable pleasure in yours as he finally reaches his peak, the muscles in his back pulling tight and arching his back, pressing more of his body into yours as he fills you with his roiling cum. It's the blossoming heat of it within you that sends you careening over the edge after him with a soundless cry, an empty moan that precedes you sinking your teeth into his shoulder to anchor yourself. To him, to the world, just so you don't disappear under the pressure of such an intense orgasm.   
  
Vergil's hands remain firmly over your ass, massaging the flesh with his fingertips, absently pulling you back and forth on his cock so that you each ride out the final waves of your respective pleasure. Your clit, red and swollen, drags across his pelvis as he moves you, each motion leaving you a shuddering, twitching mess that's still half moaning, half mumbling his name.   
  
When hands and hips and hearts still, you press your hands on his chest and shakily push yourself up, rising onto your knees. And already knowing what you intend to do, already anticipating it, Vergil tilts his head down to where you're already looking, where you're both still joined. He hisses when you slowly rise up off him, moving deliberately slow to mirror the torturous drag of his cock from earlier. You stop right at the head of his cock, leaving it buried inside the heat of your cunt, just to build the tension. But a light slap to your ass and a short, but pleasured yelp later (that has you contracting around him one final time), you pull off him completely, and with nothing in the way, no plug to hold it all within you, thick, viscous cum, plentiful and milky white, oozes out from your hole. It slowly dribbles down from you, coursing down his shaft and building up around the base of his cock, eventually spilling down his sides and between his legs. The sight of it almost arouses you anew, but you're soft and gentle when you look back up at Vergil, pressing your lips to his so tenderly that it's hard to imagine he was whispering such filthy things to you only minutes ago. His hands, both of them this time, slide up your back, lazily returning the kiss.   
  
So you didn't really get to worship his body tonight, but there's always next time.   
  
Your hands slip from his arms, nails dragging, feather light, across his pecs.   
  
Or you could do it now. The night is young.


	3. Concocktion: Dante x Reader (NSFW)

It was such a sweet gesture, one that warmed you right to your bones when Dante had first suggested a dinner date. You weren't even really aware that he could cook, but you figured he took a page out of Vergil's (admittedly very limited and simple) book, bit the bullet (once, very literally. How it ended up in the stew was anybody's guess), and just  _ learned _ .   
  
But that doesn't really explain why you're standing at the entrance to the kitchenette, watching Dante stir an entire block of chocolate through… what appears to be instant ramen?   
  
"That's dinner, huh?"   
  
"So, long story--" Leaving the wooden spoon sitting inside his concoction of spicy and sweet, Dante pivots on the spot to regard you, leaning his hip against the counter top. "--I totally thought I had enough cash to go grocery shopping, buuuut, it kinda turns out I don't, so that's my bad."   
  
"That wasn't a very long story, either." Your hands are on your hips, stance somewhat imposing even though you barely reach his shoulder by comparison. But despite your aggressive pose, the grin that pulls one corner of your lips upward is anything but.   
  
"And I'm sorry for that too." Dante makes room for you when you cross the room to stand by him, startlingly close, to stare into the pot on the stove. It bubbles and boils, the chocolate seizing and merely sitting atop the noodles in half melted chunks. "I could'a sworn I had more in the pantry than this, but this was the best I could do under the circumstances."   
  
The circumstances being something along the lines of 'she likes noodles, and she likes chocolate. This could work.'.   
  
He watches you tentatively lift the spoon from the goopy mess in the pot and physically winces when you sample a taste of it, fearing for the worst. But there's not much of a reaction from you even when the burn of the spicy soup clashes perhaps a little too violently with the dark chocolate he unwittingly(and probably without much thought) tossed in. Just a quiet hum, and a thoughtful tilt of your head.   
  
"You're so stupid, Dante. So, so dumb…"   
  
"Oh shit, is it bad?" His teeth are bared in a grimace, too worried by your words themselves to catch the playful, borderline sultry tone of your voice. "We can skip dinner, if you want."   
  
Your response to him comes in the form of a firm hand right in the middle of his chest, forcing him backwards. His eyes meet your wolfish grin, and he lets out a surprised and confused yelp when he feels his ass hit the countertop on the opposite side of the kitchen.   
  
"Uhhh…" For what it's worth, Dante hides the very beginnings of his arousal rather well - he always loves it whenever you manhandle him - because surely you can't be thinking of starting anything here, can you? In the kitchen? Right in front of the salad?!   
  
You rise up onto your toes to tilt your face up towards him, lips grazing his prickly stubble. Your tongue peeks out from between your lips, giving his own the barest of teasing licks with the very tip. "Oh no, I'll eat what you made for me," you say, hand skimming down his front to message at the growing tent in his pants. God he's so thick already, and he's hardly even at half mast - how utterly mouthwatering, "but let me get some  _ real _ nutrition first."   
  
Dropping to your knees before him, you make quick work of his belt and pants, popping the buttons open with practiced and precise movements. You've already pulled his cock out of his pants by the time Dante steadies himself with his hands against the counter, pressing gentle kisses along his hardening shaft.   
  
"If I knew this was gonna happen, I'm thinking I should cook more often." Dante's breathless laugh is hindered by a pleasured gasp when you suck the head of his cock into your mouth. He isn't quite fully hard yet, but with how enthusiastic you're being with your tongue flicking and teasing at his glans, and your hand slowly pumping him, well, that's a problem that solves itself.   
  
He bucks once, and suddenly, right into your mouth when he feels you cup his balls in your hand, squeezing gently at the softness of his skin. The dual stimulation already has him leaking his milky precum against your tongue, which you greedily lap away, moaning around his cock at the taste of him. This, indeed, is the nutrition you were only just talking about - you genuinely believe that whatever protein he has in his arousal and his cum is more beneficial to you than whatever combination brews in that pot on the stove.   
  
Probably tastes better too.   
  
Your eyes meet with his when he looks down at you, the look on his face somehow distant, but so clearly aroused - his parted lips, the faraway look in his eyes, the wrinkle between his brow. He loves you in your entirety, but having you knelt before him with his cock in your mouth, eyes tilted upward to watch for his reactions, is a view that's really only second to the sight of you bouncing on his cock, head thrown back in ecstacy--   
  
"Fuck--" Another stream of that salty, bitter tang oozes from him, and with another soft mewl around his shaft, your lips sealed so tight, you close your eyes in bliss. But that just makes matters worse (or perhaps better) for Dante, who just sighs above you, trying to thrust more of his impressive cock into your mouth.   
  
And you let him. Dante isn't the only one who enjoys getting manhandled every now and then, and when he ekes more of his thick length into your waiting mouth, you have to clamp your thighs together over nothing but air, and though your cunt throbs and bays for a physical presence, you make do. For all of a second, you consider slipping a hand between your legs so that the phantom friction you can feel when you impatiently rub your thighs together becomes a little more real, but that would mean you'd have to either remove your hand from around the base of his cock, or stop massaging at his balls, and frankly, you love the reactions that both of those actions are giving you.   
  
Not to mention that Dante will no doubt pay you back in kind after this. That's the sort of man he is.   
  
And so you abstain from touching yourself, your hand twitching in anticipation as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. Thin ribbons of drool manage to slip out past your lips when you slip and flicker your tongue along the underside of his shaft, poking out between your lips and slowly, but surely, dripping onto your shirt. Not that you really mind when you've been covered in the roiling heat of his cum before, but the gentle warmth that blooms on the outside of your shirt calls back those memories of you, panting and painted with thick white stripes. They were impossibly hot on your skin, even after having been exposed to the open air, and that musky  _ smell _ … You moan again, a shameless, unrestrained sound, and suckle a little more desperately at the modest length of him in your mouth - you've attempted to take all of him before, and on numerous occasions, but every attempt has fallen through, more to  _ your _ disappointment than Dante's.   
  
"Babe…" His voice carries the same tension as his fingers gripping the counter at his sides, a warning for you that he's getting close. Not that you needed it when you can feel the evidence of such on your tongue, and in your hands. But instead of pulling off of him like he thought you might - because part of him supposes you don't  _ actually _ want to spoil your dinner, surely - you do the opposite instead. You exhale a slow breath, relax your throat, and force another inch and a half of him into your mouth. Your jaw burns from the effort, your eyes sting with tears, but none of that really matters when you hear Dante curse at the ceiling, and feel a large hand fall to your head to guide you along the length of his cock. Your hand pumps faster, thumb moving independently to rub in small circles at the underside of his shaft.   
  
His fingers spread wide across your scalp, threading through your hair and pressing into your skin as he spills into your mouth with a hiss. Your own response is a pitched whine when you feel the first hot spurt against the back of your throat. When Dante looks back down, eager to watch you swallow down his rampant load, it's to your own blissed expression. Your eyes are half-lidded, brow vaguely knitted in a look of concentration… or pleasure, Dante's almost certain it's the latter with how greedily you swallow around his pulsing cock, your gulps and laboured breaths clearly audible to his ears.   
  
When the throbbing stops, when his plentiful spurts slow to a gentle dribble, you dip the tip of your tongue into the slit at the very tip of his glans, giving it one final, thorough swipe before you pull off his cock and swallow the last of his cum. Like you did in the very beginning, you pepper kisses along his shaft, cheekily laving at the skin at the very base with your tongue while you watch him.   
  
He laughs again, but this time he sound rather tired. "Don't look at me like that or else we'll end up skipping dinner entirely."   
  
You lick your lips as you get to your feet, pressing your body right up against his and sandwiching his still-hard cock between you. "Don't speak too soon." You press a kiss against his throat, smiling into his skin when you feel him cant his head away  _ just _ enough to give you better access to him. "Day isn't over yet."


	4. Fatherhood: Gen/Familial (SFW)

Requiring little sleep is by no means the same thing as not needing any. Although usually an early riser by the virtues of innate discipline, even someone like Vergil can be jostled awake on the wrong side of the bed. Dante is usually the culprit in these occurrences, whether it be his jukebox, or god forbid, reckless use of either Ebony or Ivory ( _ "I thought the safety was on!!" _ ), but this morning's rare disturbance comes in the form of his phone rattling obnoxiously against his bedside table. Vergil blinks wearily into the darkness of his room, noting first and foremost that the sun has yet to rise, heaving a vaguely annoyed sigh as he lifts a heavy hand and blindly gropes around for his phone, using the (near) blinding light of the screen as a beacon. His fingers close over it and he absently pulls it toward him, yanking the charging cable right out from it in the process. Whoever is calling him at this hour had better have a damn good excuse for it--   
  
He doesn't even bother checking the caller ID, not only because he's too annoyed for that, but because the glare of the screen is damn near blinding right now. " _ What _ ." He spits, eyelids still so heavy with the desire to sleep. He indulges their silent plea, eyes closing as he flops back onto his bed.   
  
"Shit, I woke you. I knew it-- fuck." Nero is immediately apologetic, but hearing the exhaustion in his son's tone has Vergil sitting up, instantly forgetting his own.   
  
"What is it?" This time, Vergil's tone is accomodating and what Dante always likes to call 'soft'.   
  
"N-no," it isn't like Nero to stammer, and for whatever reason, it makes Vergil uneasy, as if his son is bursting at the seams. It scares him somehow. "Don't worry about it, it can wait until morning. Sorry. I'm sorry."   
  
"Nero," the venom from earlier is completely gone from his tone, replaced by a firm, yet gentle sound that he admittedly learned from Kyrie, "tell me what happened."   
  
"Kyrie, she--" something in Nero's throat catches, "--premature labour. She wasn't due for another seven weeks, but--"   
  
Like ice, dread washes over him,  _ through _ him, so cold and almost painful, gripping him like the inky black tendrils of a distant memory. He blinks those away and focuses on the present. On his son's tired voice in his ear, so vulnerable and… distraught. Seven weeks early… Vergil's eyes wrench shut, trying to fight the fog of sleep in his mind in an attempt to remember what he's read about pregnancy, about the gestation period and the development of a fetus. It wasn't for any particular reason, he'd told himself when he spied the books in a quiet little store, he was just curious then. Who could have known it would pay off in the end? Not Vergil, certainly, but why did it have to be like this?    
  
Seven weeks early is a startling expanse of time, the baby is still underdeveloped, lungs most of all, but modern medicine is miraculous, rivalling even the potency of Vital Stars, even if the results aren't immediately apparent - the chances of the baby's survival are quite good, but all the same, he knows that isn't the reason why Nero is calling him. Vergil is already swinging his legs over the edge of his bed, feeling a sense of urgency that he's never really felt before. A sense of responsibility that lies somewhere other than in himself.   
  
"Are you at the hospital right now?"   
  
"Y-yeah…"   
  
"Wait for me."   
  
Truthfully, a lot of Vergil's behaviour towards Nero, especially in the last year or so, have all been clumsy recreations of his memories of Sparda's own presence in his childhood life. Which, thinking back on it, was more awkward than anything else. After all, affections bestowed on eight year old children don't translate well to a man in his mid-twenties. But so much time was spent in emulation of something he hardly remembers that he'd never really given the notion of fatherhood any real thought - always relying on a distant memory and the experiences of a boy who seems to exist in a completely different world. But in this moment, woken up at an ungodly hour by his son who would never think to call unless he absolutely needed to, Vergil finds that his reactions feel more natural than his bumbling attempts at filling in the lesser known aspects of Sparda's legacy.   
  
When Vergil opens his room door, fully dressed, he steps through with a stride full of purpose, forging his own pathway to fatherhood.   
  
This one feels right.   
  
This one fits a little better.   
  
\--   
  
When he arrives at the NICU, it's 3:27am, and Nero is standing in the hallway, staring into the ward where nurses stand by over a pair of bassinets. He isn't presently allowed inside, relegated to merely watching as his children, twins - a boy and a girl - are plugged into an array of machines and monitors that beep and hum and hiss, sounds that don't belong next to, or even anywhere near children so frail and new. Surprising even Vergil, it hurts to see, like an unseen hand wringing his heart inside his chest. But it hurts no more than seeing the bags under Nero's eyes, his pasty complexion, the rigid, tired way that he turns to look at his father striding toward him.   
  
Before Nero can stop it, before he can really process any of the things he's about to say, they automatically come tumbling out of his mouth, more a string of phrases than a thought out and well constructed sentence. "I'm sorry, I know it's so fucking early, but I've been here for so long, I haven't slept in days, I'm so tired and you're the only one I could think of to call."   
  
_ You're the only one I could think of to call. _   
  
Hearing that makes the light taps of Vergil's shoes against the linoleum slow, but only for a second, because he can't afford to falter here.   
  
Nero tries to remain strong for Vergil, but the facade crumbles like ash under the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder, and when he droops his head, the weight proving to be a little too much, and far too soon, Vergil lets it happen.   
  
"It's alright, Nero." Whether he's referring to his grandchildren, the fact he was awoken at an inconvenient hour, or simply in general, he isn't sure.   
  
"They're so fucking small--" Normally so brazen and confident, following in the bumbling footsteps of his uncle, the Nero that stands before Vergil now is a painful contrast to that image - tired and distressed, his hand rising to his face to shield his eyes from Vergil's watchful gaze under the guise of rubbing at his temples. But even so, Vergil can see the weariness that plagues his son, and his hand grips Nero's shoulder a little more firmly.   
  
_ They _ , Nero said. Plural. Twins. Another something in Vergil's chest tweaks and twists and swirls. He tilts his head, looks over through the glass and peers into the ward and the bassinets and the two newborns within them. There are too many wires joining them to too many machines. It's too cold and too clinical.   
  
Vergil smiles. Tries to. "If they are truly of your flesh and blood, they will make it." He doesn't really know what he's saying, or what point he's trying to get across - the words are just coming from his mouth with a confidence and steadfastness that he feels he needs to emphasise more than anything. "If they possess even a modicum of the spirit that you do, they will grow healthy."   
  
Nero's body trembles in a show of vulnerability that Vergil has never seen in his son before, and with a determined inhale, he tries again.   
  
"Trust in me."   
  
The trembling stops, the hand that shields his weakness falls away from his face, and though tired and raw, he looks up to meet the penetrating and unwavering stare from his father. And though it is exhausted and doesn't reach his eyes, Nero smiles too. Tries to.   
  
He loops an arm across Vergil's shoulders, somehow broader than he'd expected, giving his father an appreciative squeeze.   
  
He says nothing about it, doesn't even allude that he heard such a thing, but Vergil swears he hears a sniffle emanate from his son when they both turn to face the ward.   
  
"Thanks for coming all the way down here." Nero says, voice quiet, but more so because he's running on fumes rather than out of bashfulness.   
  
Like this, standing shoulder to shoulder, Vergil thinks that more than providing opulence and means of self defense and grand weapons...   
  
"Of course." Vergil replies, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.   
  
...all a father really needs to do is to be there.   
  
\--   
  
The next few days are tireless for Vergil - after staying with Nero for the duration of that first sleepless night, he travels constantly between the orphanage and the hospital; picking up changes of clothes for Nero who refuses to leave the hospital under any circumstances; ensuring the children of the orphanage are properly looked after and fed; arranging inventory; taking stock; taking calls for DMC's Fortuna branch… and yet when all is said and done, he doesn't hate the weariness and fatigue he feels. Instead, he is proud, a weight that he wasn't aware that he was even carrying upon his shoulders lifted from upon his back. He has only ever  _ read _ about feelings of vindication, knows it only in theory and on paper, but this?   
  
He's certain that this is it.   
  
When he knocks gently at Kyrie's hospital room door, it opens to warmth and an energetic young couple - their collective strength returning to them at the exact same pace that their newborn twins were flourishing and growing by the day. The nurses were baffled. One even wept out of joy.   
  
"I take it there was good news?" Vergil takes a seat at what has since been designated as 'his chair'. The only one who dares sit in it is Julio.   
  
Coincidentally, Julio is Vergil's favourite.   
  
" _ Great _ news." Nero is perched on the edge of Kyrie's bed, his hand linked with hers. The silver bands they each wear glint in the light of the morning sun as it cascades through the open window - an idyllic image that has him smiling to himself.   
  
"At the rate they're growing, we'll be able to welcome them home within the next two weeks." Although she was very recently put through a very harrowing experience, the glow that brightens Kyrie's cheeks is vibrant, healthy. Relieved.   
  
"That  _ is _ good news," Vergil says, tone soft and eyes downcast as he adjusts the bands that adorn the sleeves of his coat. "I'm happy to hear it."   
  
Unbeknownst to him, Kyrie and Nero exchange glances with one another. Kyrie gestures with hazel eyes, widening them briefly before tilting her head in Vergil's direction in a silent, figurative push in Nero's back.   
  
_ Ask him _ , her eyes are saying.   
  
Nero purses his lips, expression twisting into one of over exaggerated alarm as he stiffly shakes his head.   
  
_ Me?! Are you kidding? _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He's your father! _ _   
_ _   
_ _ And your in-law! _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Nero!! _   
  
Defeated in a silently played game of chess where the moves made were done so only with their eyes and wordless gestures, Nero throws both his hands up, bested by the warm honey of her eyes.   
  
"And uhh," Nero's hand automatically rises to his face, idly rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. No matter how many times the habit is brought to his attention, he just can't seem to break it… "we've named the boy, but me and Kyrie--"   
  
"Kyrie and I."   
  
Nero rolls his eyes at the dual correction from both his wife and his father, choosing to take the high road instead. "But  _ Kyrie and I _ can't really settle on a name for the girl. So… I mean. If you had any thoughts on that, then… you know…"   
  
It's equal parts cute and frustrating to Kyrie that of all times, it's  _ now _ that Nero doesn't really know how to face his father, tripping incessantly over his words, but when she looks over at Vergil who sits in stunned silence, fingers still poised over the strips of velvet on his coat, it's now more than ever that she realises that they're cut from the same cloth.   
  
"You'd let me name her?"   
  
Here, Kyrie takes the reigns, navigating the clumsy atmosphere fostered by two (out of three) fools that she's come to love with grace and aplomb. "It's the least we could do to thank you for everything you've done for us in the past few days."   
  
Falling back into silence and tilting his gaze rather dumbly back into his lap, Vergil notices the world as he sees it begin to shift and blur as a wet sheen layers over his eyes. He blinks them away before they fall, before they become too obvious, so that when he looks up again, the only thing that can be seen on his face is a sincerity that, if Dante were to see, would result in a playfully pinched cheek and a casual quip at Vergil's expense.   
  
"Eva." He says simply, and without even a second thought.   
  
It's a name Nero and Kyrie have heard in passing before, not from either twin, but from Lady, and together, they nod in agreement.   
  
Eva and Credo.   
  
Credo and Eva.   
  
It has a rather nice ring to it.


	5. Marked: Vergil x Reader (NSFW)

There are many perks to dating a half demon hybrid; their physical strength means most, if not  _ all _ sexual positions are effortless on their part; their stamina means they don't tire easily; their tolerance for pain is delightfully high; and you have to thank the heavens above for whatever higher being decided to give them the ability to ejaculate obscene amounts of cum.   
  
Multiple times.   
  
In one evening.   
  
But if you had to pick  _ one _ thing to complain about, one tiny facet of their prowess that bothers you, it's their ability to heal. No injury is too great for this miraculous power. Great, open gashes stitch and fuse back together in mere seconds, so what hope do your human teeth and nails have? No matter how much you scratch and bite and suck at Vergil's skin, the half crescents left behind by your teeth and the splotches you leave in the wake of your eager mouth are vibrant on his alabaster skin only for the most fleeting of moments. They fade before your very eyes, returning his skin to the smooth milky texture that taunts you with its flawless expanse. But it's perhaps no more provocative than Vergil himself, his lips always twisting into a smug smile when all your efforts inevitably go to waste. It's something he's always taken pride in - that, whether by his teeth in your shoulder or thighs or arms or neck or wherever he fancies, or by virtue of his hand leaving an angry red print on your ass, he is able to mark you however he likes and in whatever manner he deems appropriate. And you? You're left frustrated and inconvenienced by what is ironically their most convenient ability.   
  
At least until today.   
  
You're knelt between his legs as your lover reclines back on a plush couch. His cock, thick and fully hard, is held gently in one of your delicate hands while you busy yourself with sucking spots of colour onto Vergil's thighs. They'll fade in seconds, you know they will, but the ring of deep red that surrounds the area they once lingered won't. Your lipstick is a deep, elegant red, one that stands out from and offsets his sombre blues. But more important than how it contrasts with his usual colour scheme, is that it is visually distinct from his pale skin. You cannot mark him by any conventional means, but a generous coat of that rich, sinful colour is more than enough to leave a trail of red, sometimes smears, sometimes prints of your full lips, creeping up his thigh until you finally reach your destination for the evening - his pulsing cock, already glistening with his arousal. Vergil has to wonder how, with all the lingering kisses you've been leaving, and the slow, sensual drags of your lips over his skin, your lipstick hasn't smudged even a bit. He wants to ask, to know what manner of witchcraft you've summoned to give yourself unlimited and perpetually perfect smear-proof lipstick, but when his gaze meets yours, when he sees you smooth your lips, so red and so plump, over the tapered head of his cock, his mouth goes dry and his words fall away, replaced by a breathy groan as he tilts his head back. The heat of your mouth melts his bothersome, meddling questions away.   
  
Vergil's hand slides into your hair, palm encompassing the back of your head, not to guide, but simply to be there, content in watching you take his cock into your mouth, bit by bit, inch by inch. Every time you pull back, always right to the tip where you lave at his frenulum with your smooth tongue, the colour of your lips rubs off on his skin, painting his shaft with smears of that deep, rich red. You watch him from under thick eyelashes, your lips parting around his glans just enough to let slip a quiet moan - you know he loves  _ hearing _ how much you enjoy sucking him off almost as much as he likes the act itself. It sparks something in him, a primal fire igniting in his eyes, bathing them in a blue flame.   
  
You can feel his fingertips gently massaging your scalp when you take him deeper, your lips tightening around his length to smear more of that matte colour over his skin, teasing each inch of him with measured flicks of your tongue, until you feel the blunt head of his cock hit the back of your throat. Above you, you can hear Vergil's breathing hitch, followed by a quiet hum, the hand that brackets your head gripping just a little tighter when he feels you slowly breathe out and relax your throat, because he knows what comes next. With one final gentle stroke, your fingers slip from his shaft, sliding back down his thighs. They brush over the waxy texture of your lipstick, and absently, you rub at them, smudging the trail even more, rubbing the deep vermillion right into his thighs. Your other hand curls a lock of your hair behind your ear, and you smile, feeling Vergil's long fingers extend around the back of your head to hold it out of the way for you. The expression that takes hold of his features is somehow both adoring, in how gently he watches you,  _ and _ fierce, in how brightly lit his eyes are in the darkness of the room. It sends a shiver down your spine, pooling and tingling low in your gut.   
  
You press him further into your mouth, deeper into your throat until your nose almost touches his pelvis, unable to contain the pleasured mewl that Vergil can feel reverberate up his length. Your hips shift, thighs ceaselessly rubbing together to create much needed friction, because although you love having your mouth stuffed full with his cock, there's somewhere else on you that's in desperate need of his attention. Perhaps after this, you can ride him as your sinful lips find his pulse and mark it in that sanguine red. The thought makes your chest flutter, makes your swollen clit throb, but for now, you focus on the salty taste of his precum on your tongue, and the slow, subtle thrusts of his hips as he tries to coax every last bit of him into the maddening heat of your mouth.   
  
"Don't force yourself."   
  
His voice cuts through the dense fog that's settling over your mind and body, and when you glance up at him again, it's to Vergil's conflicted expression watching you. The flames of desire lick at his irises, shifting and flickering between white hot and bright blue, but you tap at his thighs twice, your signal to him you're alright, and after a few more seconds of silent deliberation, his brow, so often wound painfully tight, relaxes. Then his eyes slide closed as he loses himself in the silken feel of your throat. Your head slowly begins to bob, gently at first, to acclimate yourself to the sensation of him penetrating your throat. It constricts him in a way that's completely separate from the tightness of your cunt, but one that has him shallowly thrusting as you establish a soothing rhythm, groaning soft praises about how well you're doing.   
  
But much as you would like to have him spill directly down your throat, your jaw is beginning to tire, and it's with heavy reluctance, and a very insistent tightening of your lips around his cock, that you begin to pull back to a more comfortable position along his length. If this disappoints Vergil in any way (it doesn't), then he doesn't show it, his fingers against your scalp returning to rubbing languid, soothing circles. Like this, you're free to lick and suck as you please, adding in the barest scrape of your teeth along his twitching cock. Your hand, once resting against his thigh returns to grip the base of his shaft, pumping his slick, velvety skin as you focus your efforts on where he loves the attention the most - the ruddy head of his leaking cock.   
  
Vergil's eyes are on you again, watching how he slips in and out of your mouth, the delicate movements of your hand, that shade of crimson on your lips, still perfectly smear free even though you've left nearly half of it on his thighs and cock by this point. His other hand slides down to cup the side of your face, urging you for the first time since you first swallowed down his length for the evening, all the way back to the tip, and then he's releasing salty, bitter strings of cum on your tongue. Pulse after pulse, he continues to softly rut into your mouth as he ejaculates, spurred on by the motions of your hand on his thick shaft as you milk him for everything he can give you, and the sight of you, on your knees between his legs, taking his near endless load. He loves the contraction of your walls around him, fluttering and squeezing when he's inside you, but unlike your cunt, your mouth is greedy and wanting, spilling not even a single drop from your lips, and it's that knowledge that makes the aftershocks of his orgasm all the more intense when he feels you gulp down a mouthful.   
  
He gives a satisfied hum when you pull of his dick, planting one final kiss to the head of it before you rise to your feet, moving to straddle him, sliding into place on his lap, and feeling his arms wind around you, wrapping you up in the familiar heat of his body.   
  
At that moment, your eyes open for real, and you realise that the lingering heat of your dream comes from Vergil pressed so snugly against your back in bed. His arms are indeed around you, and you can feel his slow, deep breaths tousle your hair as he sleeps. You adjust your body on the bed, turning just enough for you to glimpse his sleeping face, and though he seems so at peace in slumber, a more pressing wetness blooms between your legs from having had such a vivid and racy dream. Craning your neck, you stare over at your makeup table, at your vast array of eye shadow palettes and blushers and bronzers and brushes, all neatly stored. In particular, you eye your collection of lipstick, drawing your lower lip in between your teeth in thought as you glimpse behind you at your sleeping lover once more.   
  
Feeling that throb of want, you rub your thighs together again, chasing the fleeting images of your dream for just a moment before you finally arrive at a snap decision.   
  
You take great care in weaselling your way out of Vergil's hold on you, careful not to rouse him from his slumber, because if you have your way, he'll open his eyes to the sight of your lips sealed around his cock, leaving streaks of red adorning his skin.


	6. Squared: Dante x OC (SFW)

Vergil's determined march slows to a stop as he reaches the front stoop of Devil May Cry. Even without any outward hint of any mishap inside, even with the dead silence that echoes within, Vergil already knows that he's about to open the door to something ridiculous based on intuition alone.   
  
Thus far, he's never been proven wrong.   
  
And today, of all days, he really can't be bothered - he's covered in demon muck (which is  _ impossible _ to get out of velvet),  _ and _ he got swindled out of half the payout because he went a little  _ too _ wild on his prey. Honestly, if the end goal was to harvest demon parts, then why was that not mentioned in the job description? He can't help being thorough at what he does, for god's sake! Aren't there people who specialise in that anyway?!   
  
He closes his hand over the door handle, forcing the agitated thoughts into a screeching halt and takes a deep breath. Because if he is to bear with whatever awaits him inside, it's best that he isn't distracted about it. And so with his mind (mostly) clear, Vergil pulls the door open and lets himself inside.   
  
The first thing he sees is a dragon. A literal dragon, teeth, claws, horns and all curled up in the corner of the store, its back turned to face everybody currently present. Which until Vergil arrived, was just Dante. Vergil recognises the shade of purple on its scales, the particular spines, and the spots along its tail. It's that strange woman that Dante suddenly (and very violently) met with one day. Since then, Vergil has come to accept her presence in their lives.   
  
_ "What on earth is that?" He'd once demanded to his brother, who was trying to hide an incredibly obvious, and incredibly inhuman scaled monster behind him. Back then, she had simply hissed at Vergil, at which Dante patted her haunch to try to soothe her. He then looked down at the cup in his hand, tipping it in Vergil's direction. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "...A smoothie…?" _ _   
_ _   
_ _ A prolonged, tense silence. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "...Right." _   
  
She doesn't normally take this form though, preferring to remain humanoid whenever she comes by the store, and so seeing he, well… like this is, to say the least, an anomaly.   
  
"And, pray tell, what is this?" Vergil grinds out between his teeth, stepping carefully over her tail that still flicks with a very clear sense of agitation. He props Yamato against his desk and slips out of his coat. He'll get it all cleaned up later..   
  
"She's mad at me." Dante says, getting to his feet to cross the room, moving over to the corner that the strange woman, coincidentally named Stranger, currently presides. He kneels by her larger form, giving her a reassuring series of pats and pets like one would when trying to console their pet. All it does is have her lift her head from underneath one of her wings and honk angrily at him.   
  
It sounds far too much like a goose. Just bigger.   
  
With an uncertain chuckle, Dante withdraws his hands, half raising them and spreading them wide in a gesture of defeat.   
  
"I accidentally stepped on her tail." He explains, giving her scales a thorough scratching. "Yeah, it was  _ an accident _ !"   
  
What follows is another series of defiant honks. If it were possible for a dragon's rigid expression to shift, Vergil would be convinced she was pouting about it. But oddly enough, at the ridiculous display before him, he feels some of his irritation subside as he shakes his head with a smile.   
  
"It was dark when I came in, and you're so quiet all the time, I didn't know you were there!" Dante's hands are on his hips, head tilted as he does his best to justify what happened. But Stranger just rumbles, the sound pitching into a high whine, making Dante click his tongue.   
  
Does he understand what she's saying?   
  
"And I  _ said _ I was sorry! Look--" He fold his hands together, pointing at her with them. "Do you wanna make it even? I'll give you a free shot at me."   
  
Apparently he does.   
  
Her eyes narrow in thought, the spines that adorn her body, and particularly those that run the length of her tail, begin to bristle and stretch, but with a slow lumber that Vergil  _ swears _ shakes the entire building, she gets to her feet and shakes out her wings. And figuring that he has all the information he needs,  _ and _ is no longer really required here, he scoops up his coat and makes his way towards the back of the store, casually (and rather effortlessly) ducking under Stranger's wings when she pounces right on top of Dante not unlike a playful kitten. The sheer weight of her has Dante stumbling backwards right into his desk, and with an obnoxious squeak, it slides a good distance along the floor, his voice shrinking into the distance the further Vergil moves away.   
  
"Okayokayokay-- settle down-- holy crap, sweetheart, you're actually kinda heavy… NO NOT LIKE THAT!"   
  
From in the laundry, Vergil can hear wood splintering and porcelain breaking over the sound of the faucet as he dunks his coat into the sink of soapy water. But even more evident than those are the sounds of pleased chirps and breathy laughs.   
  
For once, he doesn't really mind the noise.


	7. Leap of Faith: Vergil x Reader (SFW)

It was by complete accident that you both found out about each other's sleeping problems. Although the more you think about it, the more you feel like that 'accident' was just a product of Dante's meddling.   
  
_ "Oops," _ even through the phone, his tone was the most insincere you'd ever heard it,  _ "did I not tell the inn staff you'd need two beds? Haha, sorry about that." _   
  
The result was one bed between the two of you for one evening. Vergil had insisted you take it, explaining that he only required three to four hours of sleep every few days to maintain optimum function, which in turn had  _ you _ explaining that you often had difficulty sleeping in the presence of others. You had stressed that it wasn't anything to do with him - you just simply weren't comfortable being left in such a vulnerable state where people could easily mess with you.   
  
(The  _ one _ time you thought to take a nap at the DMC office, you ended up walking around town for nearly half a day with a drawn on unibrow and exaggerated eyelashes thanks to Dante's newfound artistic talents. You vowed it would never happen again.)   
  
But whatever Dante's intentions were for organising such sleeping arrangements, they'd fallen right through, because all that ended up happening was a rather thoughtful and heartfelt conversation held in the comfort and cover of darkness. There was no pressure to talk, there was no awkwardness, even when conversation naturally tapered off. It was just the both of you, back to back on the single bed, far enough apart that the situation remained modest, but close enough that you could feel each other's warmth, talking about various odds and ends, two gentle voices conversing and sometimes laughing right into the morning.   
  
Ever since then, if you ever found yourself forced to stay the night at the DMC office, you'd eventually abandon the old leather couch in the main office area, leaving behind the constant hum of the jukebox in the corner with it's harsh neon lights, and go knocking on Vergil's door. He would always be awake, perhaps leisurely reading, sometimes meditating, but he never turned you away, always opening the door wider for you to step inside to make yourself comfortable on his bed, wrapped in linens that always carried that woody smell of nature.   
  
He would always pretend he didn't notice the way you always had his sheets bundled right up to your nose.   
  
And you would always pretend you were just settling in, appreciating the comfort of a  _ real _ bed as opposed to that squeaky old couch.   
  
You're both terrible liars.   
  
"Well? What would you like to discuss tonight?" Vergil asks, slipping a bookmark into his novel and placing it back onto his desk.  _ Tonight _ marks your fifth shared evening since that first mishap at the inn several weeks ago, and though he crosses the room to join you in his own bed, his actions, as they always do, carry a platonic implication above anything else. You feel the bed dip under his weight as he settles in under the covers, already warm from your own body heat, but he remains modest, keeping a respectable distance.   
  
So imagine his surprise when you, with a surge of unprecedented courage, roll over to nestle comfortably into his side. Every muscle in his body immediately tenses, and he dares not move, or even breathe even as you nuzzle into his warmth. The sounds that leave his mouth can only be described as curt, choppy, broken… actual  _ sounds _ and  _ noises _ as opposed to full words.   
  
"Do you believe in fate?" You completely gloss over his stunned state, choosing instead to address his question to you and hoping it will smooth the journey in normalising what you've just done. You can hear Vergil's heart hammering in his chest, but that rapid beat exists on a two way street - if you can hear his, then he too can hear yours. Maybe that's what causes him to settle down, to tentatively let you rest your head in the crook of his arm. His hand hovers over your waist as he contemplates what is and isn't appropriate (nevermind the very fact that you're already in his bed) but he eventually decides on letting it fall back onto the mattress with a defeated flop.   
  
He doesn't possess your bravery.   
  
"No." The sound of his voice so close to you makes you smile into his shirt. "Perhaps not conventionally at any rate. Do you?"   
  
"I don't really know," you reply, doing your best to keep yourself from pressing further into his chest. You'd taken a leap already by breaching those unspoken walls that you'd both simply accepted as being there, crossing the threshold into new and unfamiliar territory. How much is too much? "I'd like to, but it all feels a bit silly, you know? Believing in something that lacks any solid, concrete foundation."   
  
Vergil makes a low noise, suspiciously close to a rumbling purr. "You say that, but we live in a world where demons consistently breach the human world. The basis for what is and isn't realistic is slightly skewed in favour of the fanciful, wouldn't you agree?"   
  
"So you  _ do _ believe in fate then."   
  
"No," he repeats, "I just believe that things happen for a reason." The laugh that bubbles out from you shakes your frame, and Vergil finds that he likes feeling that gentle rumble against him to accompany the sound of your laugh.   
  
"That's basically the same thing!"   
  
"It isn't." Even in spite of his disagreement with your statement, Vergil still finds himself smiling along. "Fate is defined as being predetermined and controlled by a higher being. I simply believe that such workings are the result of something much smaller in scope. And there is almost always a justifiable reason for them."   
  
You hum, pretending to mull it over when you turn your face into his shirt. That natural woody smell isn't the sheets, you find. It comes from him. "Can you give me an example?"   
  
"Hmm." Similarly, Vergil pretends to consider your question when the reality behind his pregnant pause is much simpler - he likes this closeness more and more with every move you make against him. Even ones as simple as nuzzling into him. "Do you remember the time Dante's coat mysteriously disappeared for several days? The reason behind its disappearance lies solely in the fact that he kept shoving all of his rubbish over to what he deems as 'my half of the office'. Do you see? Mysterious event. Justifiable reason."   
  
"Pff--" You muffle the rest of your laugh into his chest, leaving Vergil tingling with a vague sense of pride. Dante is normally the one who coaxes such laughter out of you, so the knowledge that he is just as efficient in that regard is… pleasing. That, and well, the sound of it, muffled or no, is enchanting. "Okay, so, hang on--"   
  
The press of your body against his lifts away, but before any real disappointment can set in, you're propping yourself up over his body, bracing yourself with one hand on either side of him. It takes you a moment to find the courage to seek his eyes, but when you do, you find that they're already on you - surprised, with a hint of something else.   
  
Something hopeful.   
  
Your heart begins to race again.   
  
"So when Dante obviously set us up in that inn with one bed, what do you think his justifiable reason for that was?"   
  
For a while, Vergil doesn't answer you. In fact, he's completely still, save for his eyes which flicker this way and that all over your face; taking in that playful glitter in your eyes; your hair; your nose; how the dim light of his room bathes you in a soft warm glow to match the tenderness within you; until they finally settle on your parted lips. He stares for a long time, thinking, pondering.   
  
And then he too decides to take a gamble, a leap of faith based on how you both look at each other when the other isn't watching, and those moments when your fingers brush by accident.   
  
By 'accident'.   
  
Maybe that falls under Vergil's loose definition of 'fate' too.   
  
He rises up on his elbows to meet you halfway, the hand that was so wary about touching you earlier following his ascent to cup the side of your face, fingers tangling themselves into your hair. His head tilts. His lips meet yours. And the world stops.   
  
When time resumes its roll, when the buzz of the halogen light overhead returns to your ears, it washes a giddiness over you that manifests in the form of a wide, but gentle smile.   
  
Vergil thumbs gently at your lips, the rough pad of it following the curve of your smile. "I believe it may have been for something like that."


End file.
